Things were not as they seemed. The situation in the little parlour was
delicate in the extreme, and as John's gaze passed from the fat
countenance of Manners to the cold forcefulness of Cherriton, whose
strong hand but a moment ago gripped his own in greeting, he told
himself that if he could creep from that situation with credit he could
escape from anything. Both Cherriton's and Manners's welcome rang
false. They were not pleased to see him. They were startled and
puzzled, and Cherriton, at least, was more than puzzled. John knew that
whatever occurred between himself and these two men must occur
privately. Moreover, there was a second danger, which he knew to be
ever present. The light in the bright little parlour was quite strong.
The fact that he had dexterously placed his back to the window might not
serve him for more than a few minutes. What if Elaine Treves suddenly
discovered her mistake?
Somehow the teeming possibilities of the moment gave steadiness to
John's nerves. He thought of a plan, and put it into execution on the
instant.
"Elaine," he said--he used her name for the first time, and as he spoke
he took her slender hand in his grasp--"I have business to discuss with
Captain Cherriton and Mr. Manners."
"I promise we shall not keep your husband more than a few minutes,"
intervened Cherriton. "Yes, old Manwitz for once is right," he thought;
"here is an Englishwoman possessed of beauty."
He made across the room, intending politely to hold open the door for
Elaine to pass out. John, however, was quicker, and as he held the door
wide Elaine lifted her grey-blue, beautiful eyes and searched his. Her
expression, John thought, was one of surprise--surprise at what?
He closed the door, and instantly Cherriton laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Well," he demanded, "what happened to you last night."
"You were present at the beginning of the happening," returned John.
"The four men were police officers, were they not?"
"Detectives from Scotland Yard. They took me there, cross-examined me,
and discovered that a mistake had been made."
Manners drew in a deep breath of relief.
"Ah--a--mistake!" he exclaimed.
Cherriton, who was busy with a cigarette, looked at John under his
brows. He had retreated to the hearth, and-was leaning with his back
against the mantelshelf. "A very unpleasant incident for you, eh,
Treves?" he inquired.
"Very," responded John.
"And my overcoat--my very excellent summer overcoat--what happened to
that?"
From the moment of John's appearance in the room he had been leading up
to this question--had his overcoat been searched, had Treves's
incriminating letter been discovered? It occurred to him that if John,
immediately after his arrest, had established his identity no search of
his overcoat was probable. And yet caution was bred in him. His deeply
subtle mind prompted him to probe the matter to its depths, and at the
same time to convey no suspicion of his anxiety to John.
"Cherriton, your overcoat is quite safe," John said quietly. "I left it
on your behalf in the cloak-room at Charing Cross Station." He put his
hand into his pocket and drew out the ticket. Cherriton took it from
his extended fingers.
"I am particularly obliged to you, Treves," he said. "I have a special
fondness for that overcoat? So the Scotland Yard people were for once
mistaken."
"Entirely," said John, with truth; "they mistook me for another man."
"Were you made acquainted with the charges against the real person?"
probed Cherriton.
"He was wanted for misappropriation of military funds."
Both Manners and Cherriton exhibited increasing interest in the unknown
culprit.
"You heard the person's name?"
"His name was John Manton. He was a sergeant at Scarthoe Fort."
"That is in the Isle of Wight?"
"Yes," John answered; "that accounts for them seizing me--they traced me
from the Isle of Wight."
Cherriton and Manners exchanged glances; neither man felt at all
comfortable. But Cherriton felt that he had pressed the matter enough.
He suddenly assumed his air of bland amiability, but it sat ill on him.
"Well, Manners," he exclaimed, looking at his confrere, "you were
mistaken--you assumed that our dear friend Treves had escaped, and were
in a great fluster of anxiety on his behalf; whereas the little
misfortune that occurred to him was all a mistake."
"All a mistake," repeated John.
"And now, I think," Cherriton remarked, taking up his grey felt hat and
denting it carefully with his hand, "I think we will not keep you from
your wife any longer."
For the second time that day he gripped John's hand in his, and John,
looking back into his cold blue eyes, felt the steady, penetrating power
of Cherriton's gaze.
"Here was a man," thought John, "used to command--a man possessed of
exceptional powers of mind and physique. You are a daring fellow,"
thought John; "a subtle and cunning worker of evil, but for once in your
life you are mistaken. I am not the man you think, either in name or in
character."
Then a singular thing happened to John. On the very instant when his
fingers slid away from the other's touch a flaming instinct ran through
him--a passionate impulse to leap upon the other's throat and squeeze
the life out of him came upon him as a definite and conscious wish.
Though he had known Cherriton only for two days, he felt a great hate
swirl up in him against this serenely poised, potent enemy. Against
Manners, whom he knew, and whom Dacent Smith knew to be a spy, he felt
nothing of this. That afternoon he had been instructed well and
thoroughly by Dacent Smith. Dacent Smith had talked much with him,
drawing him out, subtly examining him as to his aspirations and his
powers. And gradually, during the talk of that afternoon, Smith had
come to realise that in John Manton he possessed a keen and
highly-wrought weapon. Here was a young man who had fought for his
country, who was willing to fight for it again in any circumstances.
And long before the end of that interview the chief of a great branch of
the Secret Service had laid his hand on John's arm.
"Manton," he had explained, "you were wasted as a sergeant at Scarthoe
Head. There are big things awaiting you. You have fought the enemy in
the open; from to-day you shall fight him in the dark. You will find
him more tricky and subtle and dangerous than he was in France"--then he
had paused a moment, looking at John. "Accidents sometimes happen,
Manton, my boy!"
"One must be prepared for accidents," John had answered, quietly.
"I have lost two or three splendid fellows during the past year. I am
telling you this," the chief resumed, "that you may remain always on
your guard. Fate or Providence has placed you in a wonderful position
with the aid of your acquaintance, Manwitz. I have the complete dossier
in that cupboard over there." He pointed to a cabinet against the wall.
"Your acquaintance with Manwitz gives you a splendid start. You will
use it to acquire such information as will be useful to the Department,
but in the first place you must discover all there is to know about the
amiable and unexpected Cherriton. We shall at the same time be working
to discover things from our end."
John thought of this conversation as Manners and Cherriton took their
departure.
"You will come and see me again soon, will you not?" Manners had
remarked at the moment of departure. He looked cunningly and meaningly
into John's eyes. In effect he had been saying: "You will come and see
me again immediately those cocaine tabloids have been consumed."
Bernard Treves's craving for cocaine, both Manners and Cherriton knew,
held that young man as by bonds of steel.
"I'll come again soon," John had answered, slipping the new address
Manners had given him into his waistcoat pocket. He watched the two men
pass into the street, then closed the door, and re-entered the empty
parlour. The daintiness, the cleanliness, and the perfect taste of the
little apartment had already won his appreciation. He wondered when
Elaine Treves would descend from above, and what would happen then.
Until now only a few fleeting words had passed between himself and the
beautiful girl who was Treves's wife. What was to happen now in the
intimacy that would ensue when she re-entered the room?
John was smoking one of Treves's cigarettes, with his back against the
mantelshelf, when the door opened and Elaine quietly entered.
"So you have got rid of them, Bernard?"
She looked at him, he thought, a little shyly, with something of reserve
in her glance. He watched her as she crossed to a chintz-covered wicker
arm-chair, with its back to the window. At her side was a small
work-table. She took out a needle, a thread, and various bits of
coloured silk. A silence drew itself out that became awkward. John
moved from one foot to another; then he made an effort to pick up the
thread of what he believed to be Treves's life in relation to the girl
who was so industriously sewing, with bowed head.
"I am sorry I wasn't able to come in answer to your wire."
"I think, Bernard, you might have answered it," returned Elaine,
quietly, without raising her head.
"Well, you know, I was not able to. Circumstances did not permit me to
answer it."
"I was afraid of that."
She suddenly looked up at him with an expression of hopelessness in her
fine eyes.
"Bernard," she said, "sometimes I think you will never, never be able to
keep your promise to me!"
"Why not?" John asked, feeling his way cautiously. He could see that she
was stirred, that something had moved her deeply. He was more than ever
assured of this when she rose, stood before him, and looked steadily
into his face.
"Oh! Bernard, if you could only, only fight!"
Under the close scrutiny of her eyes John felt extraordinarily
uncomfortable.
"Other people have fought and have conquered," went on the girl. "Why
should not you? Sometimes," she went on, "you are quite as you should
be, just as you are now--the man who once won my love. And then,
again----" She broke off.
Accidentally John had put his fingers in his waistcoat pocket. He felt
the contact of the little bottle of cocaine tabloids Manners had forced
upon him. He had guessed that Elaine was referring to Treves's
enslavement to this drug, and he drew out the bottle, holding it in the
palm of his hand. He saw the girl look at the tabloids with an
expression of loathing; then something seemed to pass through her that
drew her rigid and erect.
"I wonder," she said, "in our very short months together, how often you
have promised, have sworn, to give it up!" Her manner suddenly changed
again, and she held out her hand imploringly. "I wonder, Bernard, if
you have the courage to give them to me?"
"Certainly," John said, "I will give them to you!"
He unscrewed the top of the little bottle, and poured the white tabloids
one after another into the palm of her hand. She looked at them for a
moment, then into his face. John was still standing with his back
towards the small fire. He felt the girl's hand on his arm; she was
thrusting him aside. A moment later she had flung the tabloids into the
red embers, and before John knew it she was holding his hand in hers,
looking up into his face.
"Bernard," she said, in a low voice, "I believe--I believe you have
changed! I think strength is coming to you--you will win yet!"
"Yes," John answered, "I swear I'll win."
The words came from him almost without volition, and at the same moment
an instinct came to him that matters were drifting too far. He turned
the conversation with a laugh, and for some minutes they were discussing
general topics. He helped her to prepare the supper, going into the
little kitchen and bringing out plates and dishes, under her direction.
Daylight faded, much to John's relief. They took supper together in the
little parlour; John noticed how deft and womanly she was.
"Our friend Treves is a lucky man, if he only knew it," thought he.
"I am afraid there is nothing to drink, Bernard."
"That doesn't trouble me," John answered; then saw her pause with the
teapot uplifted in frank surprise. "I mean," said John, striving to
recover the situation, "if you haven't got it, I don't mind."
The meal passed off in an air of general cheerfulness. Elaine's little
clock struck nine, and when the meal was at an end John took the seat
opposite Elaine and her little work-basket. She busied herself with her
fancy-work, and occasionally John caught her eyes resting upon him with
a thoughtful and somewhat puzzled expression. He strove to gather from
her manner what her feelings really were towards her husband. "She
can't love him," thought John; "he's too much of a brute and a waster
for that. And yet women are strange creatures."
Elaine had been silent for some minutes, but presently she spoke,
uttering something that appeared to have dwelt for long in her mind.
"Bernard," she said, "I am not so hard as you think, but I am sure the
way I am acting is the only right way." She paused.
"I am sure it is the right way," answered John, looking into her candid,
girlish face.
He noticed again the flicker of surprise. He was always making false
steps. The situation was difficult beyond everything he had
experienced. Dacent Smith had impressed upon him the importance of tact
and finesse. Here was a situation thrust upon him requiring abundance
of both.
"You seem to have changed your point of view?"
"Well----" John began, cautiously.
"You were so violent with me," interposed Elaine.
"There was no intention on my part to be anything of the sort towards
you," John answered.
He wondered what Treves had done, what Treves had said. He began to
experience pleasure in the situation; he began to wonder what was to
happen next. But very soon after that the clock struck ten.
Elaine put away her needlework and rose somewhat abruptly.
"You must go now, Bernard."
John looked at her for a moment in surprise.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I see--of course."
Then Elaine crossed the hearthrug and laid her slender hands on the
lapels of his coat.
"To-night, Bernard," she said, "I have almost felt as if you were your
old self again."
"Thanks," answered John, awkwardly; his position at that moment was
awkward and utterly false; he was like a man who walks blindly on the
edge of a precipice. He wondered if she was about to kiss him, or if she
expected him to salute her in that way. This doubt was still upon him
when Elaine reached up and touched his cheeks lightly with her lips.
There was no passion, no love--nothing but a sort of sisterly affection
in the embrace, but John was glad when it was over. If she had been a
less beautiful woman the situation would have been so very much easier.
Elaine accompanied him along the passage, handing him his hat and stick
as they went. In the darkness at the door, as they shook hands, John
felt that the impression of her fingers was warmer and infinitely more
cordial that the greeting she had given him upon his arrival. He could
see her face only dimly. She had seemed surprised that he had departed
so easily; he felt that he must say something, utter some remark that
possibly might have been uttered by Bernard Treves.
"I am sorry to have to go," he said.
Then Elaine's voice came to him quietly in the darkness. There was a new
note in her words.
"You must come again--soon, Bernard."
The door closed softly, and she was gone.